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REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 
By HELEN S. WOODRUFF 


By HELEN S. WOODRUFF 


MIS’ BEAUTY 

ILLUSTRATED. 12mO. NET $1.00 

THE LADY OF THE LIGHTHOUSE 

ILLUSTRATED. SMALL QUARTO. NET $1.00 

REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 

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GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
NEW YORK 





THE MUSKRAT 


REALLY TRULY 
NATURE \5TORIE3 

Children 
out of Doorj 


BY 

HELEN ^.WOODRUFF 



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GEORGE HDOKAN • COMPANY 


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Copyright, 1913, 

By George H. Doran Companv 





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To 

My God-Son 

Clitheral Birch Lawrence 
On His Christening 


To you, dear littte christened lad, dear little God-son Boy, 

Is given the World, with all its gifts; ' tis jam-cram full of joy: 
Childhood’ s bright days, kind words, sweet thoughts and Mother-loving hours. 
The happy birds, all out-door-folk, and Heaven-kissed, fragrant flowers. 
The brooks, the woods so deep and cool, the flelds, the sky so blue; 

The World holds out its welcoming arms, the sunshine shines for you. 
So, as these Gifts were given me, my little God-son Lad, 

1 share them all with you today, to make your whole life glad. 


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Chapter. Page. 

I. The Muskrat n 

II. The Oven-bird 19 

III. Our Friends the Snakes .... 27 

IV. Fairy Thorns 33 

V. The Wood Kitten 39 

VI. The Monarch 47 

VII. The Village Kingdom 55 

VIII. The Bat 63 

IX. The Dragon-Fly 71 

X. The Ruby-Throat 79 

XI. The Scarlet Underwing .... 87 

XII. The Painted Turtle 98 





REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 




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The>Muvskralr 


ATE one afternoon, when the sky 
was still blushing because the 
sun had kissed her before he 
went to bed, Pal and I were 
coming home from a tramp. 
As we walked along the bank 
of a stream which reflected the 
rosiness of the sky, a most de- 
licious odor was wafted to us 
from the water. I sniffed it in, and said, “Oh how 
good that smells! There must be a heliotrope bed 
around here somewhere.” 

Pal drew in a long breath of pleasure. 

“It is delicious; but it is musk, not heliotrope.” 

“Musk^’ I asked. “What’s musk?” 

“It’s a/liquid which the Muskrat carries in two 
little sacs in his body, and uses as a perfume to at- 
tract other Muskrats. If it were not so dark,” Pal 
continued, “we could watch for them, for I am sure 
there must be a pair living in this bank; and then 
I would tell you their whole story.” 



12 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


“Oh, pshaw!” I said. “I wish it wasn’t so dark, so 
I could see them!” 

Just then, however, a happy thought struck me, 
and I asked, “Why can’t we come down here in the 
morning? Won’t they still be here?” 

“Yes, they’ll be here,” he answered. “That’s a 
good idea. When you get home you can ask Tommy 
and Willie if they want to come, and we can start 
right after breakfast.” 

“Oh, that will be lovely!” I cried excitedly, and 
we crossed the meadow and went into our grove, 
from which we could see the light in Mother’s room 
beckoning us to come home to supper. 

I suppose you know that my Pal has charge of a 
great big museum where they have all kinds of 
butterflies and moths and animals, and lots of things. 
I thought at first that he wasy^ruel, because he caught 
some of the beautiful little butterflies in a poison 
bottle, and killed them. But, you see, he has to do 
that in order to study them; and then he goes out in 
the woods and fields and watches live ones like them, 
so that he can write books all about their habits, tell- 
ing which are our enemies, and which are our 
friends. He puts what he catches in a glass case in 
the museum, so that other people can study them, 
too; for he thinks that everyone should learn to know 
about the little wood-folks/that live all around us. 

The next morning, bright and early, the four of 
us crossed the meadow and were soon standing on 
the edge of the sluggish little stream which lay like 


THE MUSK RAT 


13 


a clear, blue mirror between the tall grasses that 
grew along its banks. 

“Now,” said Pal, pointing to the muddy bank 
opposite, “see that round hole just beneath the sur- 
face of the water?” We looked, and saw it quite 
plainly; a hole the entrance of which was about 
twice as big around as a cup. 

“Hooray!” said Tommy. “I believe I’ll poke this 
stick in it andj/ee what’s there!” 

“I can tell you what’s there,” said Pal, taking the 
stick away. “That is the entrance to the home of 
Mr. and Mrs. Muskrat.” 

“But it is under water!” Willie said; “I should 
think their home would be flooded all the time!” 

“No, that is the clever part of it. It looks so to 
us, from here, but should we examine it more close- 
ly, or poke a stick in, as Tommy suggested, we would 
find that it has been burrowed slantingly upward 
from the water until a level was reached above the 
water line. From thiS/f5oint a hallway extends for 
several yards, ending in a big round room.” 

“So the water can never get in there,” I said. 
“Isn’t that clever?” 

“But why do they have the entrance under water, 
then?” Tommy asked. “It seems to me that’s awfully 
silly!” 

“They have it there,” explained Pal, “because that 
makes it more difficult for an enemy to find it, such 
as a weasel, which is a land animal. If the entrance 
were above the water it would be very easy for him 


14 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


to crawl in and kill the Muskrat’s babies. But it is 
all right for the Muskrats to have the entrance under 
water, for they are mainly water animals, living on 
plants and roots that grow beneath the surface.” 

“How can they breathe under water?” asked 
Willie. 

“They cannot, but have to come to the surface 
every few minutes to fill their lungs with fresh air.” 

“So that is the reason their rooms are made above 
the water level, is it, so they can breathe all right?” 
I asked. 

“Yes, partly, but also, as you have seen, so their 
homes won’t get flooded.” 

“Oh, what is that thing floating towards us?” I ex- 
claimed; and we /Stopped looking at the hole, and 
began watching an object coming down stream. 

“It looks like a head!” Willie cried. 

“Don’t see nothin’ that looks like a head,” said 
Tommy!” 

“There! that thing right there. Tommy!” 

“That ain’t no head!” 

“’Tis, too!” 

“It certainly is,” I put in. “Isn’t it, Pal?” 

“Yes,” said Pal; “there’s your Muskrat.” 

But just then down went the little head out of 
sight. 

“I am afraid he saw us, children, and if so we 
will see no more of him; for he is a very timid crea- 
ture, diving at the slightest approach of danger, and 
swimming under water until the danger is past. 




THE MUSKRAT 


15 


“Oh, I wish I could see one!” I said. “What are 
they like, anyway?” 

“Like a rat,” said Tommy, “or they wouldn’t be 
called Muskrats.” 

“Do they look like rats. Pal?” I asked. 

“Not very much,” he said, “though they belong 
to the same general family as the rat. Their bodies, 
which are about fourteen inches long, are covered 
with a soft brown fur, so near the color of the muddy 
banks where they live that I have often watched 
one a very long time before I could tell whether it 
was\^ lump of mud, or a living creature.” 

“Must be mighty ugly,” observed Tommy. 

“They are not. Tommy. On the contrary, their 
fur is so handsome there is grave danger that trap- 
pers, who catch them so that they may get their fur 
in order to sell it, will kill them all, so there won’t 
be any left in a few years.” 

“Oh, that would be too bad!” I said. “But what 
is done with the fur?” 

“It is used to line coats and make muffs, and all 
sorts of things to protect us from the cold.” 

“Has it a tail like^a rat?” asked Willie. 

“Yes, like a rat, because it has no fur on it; but it 
differs in that it is flat on the sides, thus making it 
look very thin through, and it is almost as long as its 
whole body. Its hind feet are different from a rat’s, 
also, for they are webbed like a duck’s, to help it in 
swimming. I’ll show you one when we get home.” 


16 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


“Hooray!” said Willie. “Let’s go home right 
now!” 

“Not yet,” said Pal, “for I’d like to show you 
something else that the Muskrats do. All Muskrats 
do not \ivt/n mud-banks like these, but build houses 
for themselves of reeds and cat-tails.” 

“Oh, do show us one,” I begged. 

“Very well, if you don’t mind walking that far, 
for there are several in the pond into which this little 
stream flows.” 

Of course we all wanted to go and followed Pal 
through the tall grass and flowers that grew along 
the edge of the stream as it wound itself, in and out, 
through meadows and little strips of woodland. 
Finally we came to the pond that lay fast asleep in 
the sunshine. And there, near the shore.upon which 
we stood, were several structures that looked like 
big bushel baskets turned upside down. 

When we saw them I danced and clapped my 
hands, they looked so like a cute little hut village 
huddled there in the shallow water. 

“That one, I think,” Pal said, pointing to the one 
nearest us, “is not lived in; so suppose we wade out 
to it and you can see for yourselves how cleverly it 
is built.” 

“Hooray!” yelled the boys, wading in, and splash- 
ing Pal and me, for we had taken off our, shoes and 
stockings and followed close upon their/lieels. We 
reached the house and Pal made a hole in the top. 

“Look down in here,” he said. “See, there is a 


THE MUSKRAT 


17 


floor above the water line, and there, where you see 
that little opening in the floor, is the passage by 
which they get to the lower story, beneath the sur- 
face of the water.” 

“Gosh!” said Tommy. “Do you mean to say they 
build two-story houses?” 

“Yes,” Pal answered. “The lower story has the 
door or hole by which they enter under the water. 
From this lower room they climb up into the upper 
room, where they can keep warmi.and dry, to sleep, 
and take care of their babies. Then, too, when all 
the rest of the pond freezes over, the water in these 
huts is kept open by the warmth of the Muskrats’ 
bodies and the closely thatched walls of their houses. 
Thus, you see, they are able to go out through the 
lower story into the pond, even in winter, and feed 
in the water under the ice.” 

“ I should think they’d freeze,” I said. 

“No,” Pal replied. “Their fur coats are thick and 
warm, and they do not mind the cold, and when they 
are not asleepi^^mey can go in and out as freely as they 
do in summer, hunting for food.” 

“Well, how do the ones that live in the mud bank 
get their food in winter, when the water is all frozen 
over?” I asked. 

“Exactly the same way, Pyxie; for they have sev- 
eral entrances to their homes, some lower than oth- 
ers, which open out under the ice, just as the lower 
story of this house does.” 


18 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


“Well, I must say,” said Tommy, “I think they’re 
a pretty decent sort of an animal.” 

The Muskrat's fur is soft and brown, 

Its tail is bare and flat, 

It feeds on water plants that suit 
The taste of a Muskrat. 

It finds, when swimming in the stream. 

Much help from webbed hind feet 
And gives forth in the evening 
A smell of musk, real sweet. 

In a home made in a river bank 
By burrowing in the clay, 

Mr. and Mrs. Muskrat 
And their babies stay. 

But another family. 

Cousins, I should say, 

Build two-story houses 
Not so far away. 







THE OVEN-BIRD 



The Oven-Bir< 


HERE are you going, Pal?” I 
called, as I saw him go down 
our front steps. 

“Why, hello, Pyxie!” he 
said. “I am just going as usual 
for a little tramp in the woods. 
Would you like to go with 
me?” 

“Oh, yes, indeed! Please wait 
till I put on my old shoes.” 

He waited, and I joined him in a minute just as 
Willie and Tommy came running around the corner 
and almost bumped into us. 

“Hey!” yelled Tommy, “who do you think you’re 
running over? Where are you going, anyhow?” 

“I’m going tramping with my Pal. Can Willie 
go with us. Pal?” 

“Hooray!” said Willie. “Me for a tramp every 
time.” 

I wasn’t going to ask Tommy because he made 
faces at me last night, but Pal said: “Come here, 



20 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


you little wild Indian, you can go, too, if you’ll be- 
have yourself.” 

We were soon deep in the woods where it was 
cool and shady, and no sounds reached us except 
those of the little wood-folks, so busy talking over 
their daily news. Suddenly I heard the fluttering 
of wings, and, looking down at my feet, saw a little 
lame bird. She was olive brown, with a speckled 
breast, and two lines on her head, between which 
was a golden yellow band. The bird was trying its 
best to walk or fly, I couldn’t tell which. It limped 
badly, and one wing dragged upon the ground. 

“Oh, look at the poor little bird!” I cried, stoop- 
ing and trying to pick it up ; but each time I would 
try to do so it would flutter just out of my reach. 
Then Willie tried to catch it, for he. too, felt awfully 
sorry, and wanted to help it. 

“Humph 1” Tommy said. “Somebody has shot her 
— that’s all that’s the matter with her. Bet I can 
catch her.” And he joined the chase, all three of 
us trying our very best to cover her with our hands, 
and pick her up. 

“Hold on!” said Tommy. “I’ll run around and 
head her off, so she can’t get away.” 

But just as Tommy was heading her off she quick- 
ly leaped from the ground, flew into the air, and dis- 
appeared among the trees. 

“For goodness sake!” I said. “I don’t see how she 
can fly when she was so badly hurt! Come, let’s 
run back and tell Pal about her.” For we, in trying 


THE OVEN-BIRD 


21 


to catch the bird, had left Pal standing several yards 
behind. 

“Say! did you see that bird with the broken 
wing?” called out Willie. “She looked like she had 
been shot. But I don’t see how she could fly like 
she did.” 

“Poh! I wasn’t surprised to see her fly,” Tommy 
boasted. 

“Pal,” I said, “you are laughing at us! Now do 
tell us what it all means.” 

“Well, children,” said Pal, “come here and stand 
about me. So. Now look very, very closely at the 
dry leaves banked about that clump of tall ferns in 
the shade of this oak. Can you see anything?” 

We looked and looked, but could see only just 
what Pal had told us was there — the leaves and 
ferns. 

“Why, Pyxie, your bright eyes aren’t so bright as 
I thought they were! Can’t you see those three 
little heads, and six little eyes, peeking at us through 
the leaves? There, and there and there!” 

And sure enough, when Pal pointed them out, we 
could see among the leaves three little baby birds 
watching us. 

“And there’s another one!” I cried, as I saw a 
fourth little head stuck out. 

“And there’s still another,” Willie said, “right 
there, near the tree!” 

“Hurrah! They’ll be easy to catch,” Tommy hol- 
lered, and started towards them. 


22 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


“No, Tommy, you must not catch them,” my Pal 
said, “for it would frighten them dreadfully and that 
would be wrong.” 

“Well, they are just the cutest little baby birds I 
ever saw,” I said. “Please tell us all about them.” 

“They are the babies of the Oven-bird that flew 
away a few minutes ago,” replied Pal. An Oven- 
bird builds its nest upon the ground, well concealed 
among the dry leaves and ferns, and as soon as her 
babies have hatched from the eggs and their wings 
have got their feathers, she brings them out of the 
nest, and keeps them among the dead leaves until 
they learn to fly. She does this because they are so 
nearly the color of the leaves that weasels and skunks 
and other enemies will not be so apt to see them, and 
eat them up. 

“She fooled you well, children, just now, when 
you were trying to catch her. That’s the reason I 
was laughing,” he continued. “For she wasn’t lame 
at all, but only pretending to be, to draw you away 
from where her young ones were hidden.” 

“Do all birds do that when they have young 
ones?” Willie asked. 

“Oh, no. That is just the Oven-birds’ special way 
of protecting their babies until they are old enough 
to look out for themselves.” 

“I think that is the smartest thing I ever heard of, 
don’t you?” I said, turning to the boys. 

“I certainly do,” Willie said. 


THE OVEN-BIRD 


23 


“Humph!” sniffed Tommy, kicking at the dead 
leaves; “that ain’t so awful smart. I’ve heard of 
things a heap smarter than that.” 

“Yesterday,” continued Pal, without paying any 
attention to Tommy’s pretended disdain, “I was 
walking a little further on in this wood, and I came 
across a couple of these birds that had just set up 
house-keeping and built a nice nest.” 

“Oh, do take us there and show them to us. Pal,” 
I begged. 

“It would be bully if they have eggs in their nest,” 
Tommy said. 

Pal agreed, and we tramped on through the woods 
until we came to a lovely cool brook tumbling over 
the stones. 

“Let’s cross over the brook here,” said Pal. 
“That’s it. Now walk as lightly as you can, chil- 
dren, and look closely at that clump of ferns on the 
bank. There! See that small mass of dead leaves 
and grass with a hole in the side, just beneath those 
arching ferns.” 

“Oh, is that the nest?” I asked. “It’s just the 
shape of an old Dutch oven in one of my picture 
books.” 

“Yes, Pyxie, that is the nest we were looking for, 
and the bird that built it is called an Oven-bird be- 
cause she builds her nest that shape. Now tip-toe 
still closer, and we will peep in at her eggs.” 

“Teacher, teacher, teacher, teacher, teacher!” 
broke out in a loud shrill cry in the tree above our 


24 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


heads, and then came a sharp “chirp,” as we stopped 
in time to see the mother-bird slide off her nest and 
fly away. 

“What was that, saying ‘Teacher, teacher?’ ” I 
said, looking up in the tree. 

“It sounded like he was calling you,” Willie said, 
turning to my Pal, “for you are our teacher.” 

“Oh, pshaw!” said Tommy, “birds can’t talk — 
nothing but parrots.” 

“Well, he was talking anyhow, wasn’t he, Pal?” 

Pal laughed. “It did sound as though he were, 
Pyxie, I must admit, but it really was the father 
Oven-bird singing; and that sharp chirp that fol- 
lowed the song was his note of warning to the mother 
bird, who was sitting upon her eggs, that we were 
getting too near. For always when she is sitting 
upon the eggs to keep them warm and hatch them 
into little baby birds, he is hunting food for her near 
by, and warns her by his cry of any approaching 
danger. 

“Now, children,” he went on, “we can peep into 
the nest, and look at the eggs. See — there are one, 
two, three, four, five small white eggs, with large 
lilac and brown spots mostly at the larger end, and 
there is a larger egg that is white, but covered with 
small brown specks.” 

“Why, how funny!” Willie said. “What makes 
her lay two kinds of eggs?” 

“I am just going to explain that, Willie. The 
five eggs that look alike belong to her, and when she 


THE OVEN-BIRD 


25 


hatches them out the little birds will look just like 
those that you saw peeping out from among the 
leaves.” 

“But what is that larger egg then? Isn’t that going 
to hatch into an Oven-bird, too?” 

“No,” said my Pal. “That is going to hatch into 
a Cow-bird.” 

“A Co‘Z£;-bird!” Willie and I exclaimed almost in 
the same breath. “What is a Cow-bird?” 

“Shucks!” muttered Tommy. “There ain’t no 
such bird. A bird can’t look like a cow!” 

“No, it does not look like a cow. Tommy. It is 
called a Cow-bird for another reason. It is a rather 
long story, however, so if you will come away from 
the nest and let the mother-bird return, we will sit 
down on that big rock and I will tell you about it.” 

So we all went over to the rock and sat down and 
Pal began: 

“Cow-birds are the laziest birds in the whole wide 
world, and are so called because they follow after 
cows to eat the insects which they kick up as they 
move slowly about the pasture. In this way, you 
see, they get their food without having to hunt for it 
themselves. And they are lazy in another way, too. 
When Cow-birds mate they don’t go to work, as other 
birds do, to build a nice, neat little nest for them- 
selves, but the mother Cow-bird, which is not black 
like the father Cow-bird, but gray, and about twice 
the size of the Oven-bird, waits ’round near some 
other bird’s nest until that bird leaves it a few mo- 


26 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


ments for food. Then in she slips, lays an egg, and 
flies away, leaving it for the other bird to keep warm, 
hatch out into a baby bird, feed, and teach to fly with 
her own little ones. Thus Cow-birds fly about the 
country, leaving an egg here and there in other birds’ 
nests, as you saw one has done in our Oven-bird’s, 
because they are too lazy to bring up their babies 
themselves.” 

“Well, I think they are perfectly horrid!” I said. 
“But the other birds are awful nice about it, I 
think,” said Willie. 

“I’ll bet they don’t know the difference,” Tommy 
sniffed. 

“I bet they do,” I said. 

“Well, children, betting won’t decide that ques- 
tion, and as a matter of fact we don’t know whether 
they do or not.” 

The Oven-bird builds its nest upon the leafy ground; 
Its head is striped in gold and black, its body's olive 
brown, 

The Cow-bird is a lazy thing, and builds no nest, you 
see, 

But lays its eggs in small birds' nests wherever they 
may be. 




A FRIENDLY MILK SNAKE 



Our Friends 
the. vSnakCvS 


Y PAL and I were walking 
across a meadow one day while 
the sun was shining and the 
trees were beckoning us from 
beyond, when I noticed in front 
of us on a stone, sunning itself, 
a great big snake. 

“Oh, Pall” I cried, “look at 
that snake!” And I began to 
pick up stones as hard as ever I could; but Pal just 
stood and watched the snake. 

“What are you going to do with those stones?” he 
asked, looking rather crossly at me. 

“Why, I am going to kill that nasty, horrid old 
snake,” I said. 

“There is nothing horrid or nasty about that snake, 
Pyxie. Its coloring is beautiful! And see how 
graceful its curves are as it lies there!” 

“Yes, but it might bite us.” 

“No, it will not bite us; and if it did it wouldn’t 
poison us. That snake is harmless.” Just then Willie 



28 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


and Tommy and several other boys came running 
toward us with big sticks and stones in their hands. 
At the noise of their approach the snake gave a 
startled look and glided from the stone, moving 
swiftly through the grass at our feet. 

“Look out! There’s a great big snake over here 
that we came over to kill,” said Willie. “We saw 
him sunning himself on that rock just before you 
came into the meadow.” 

At that instant Tommy must have spied the snake, 
for he began beating the grass and yelling, “Come 
on, fellows! I’m killing him!” 

With that my Pal looked mad, and rushing over 
to him took the stick from his hand. “Tommy,” 
he said severely, “I am surprised to see a nice boy 
like you killing an innocent creature.” 

“But it’s a snake!” objected Tommy. “Everybody 
kills snakes.” 

“No, not everyone. Only those who do not know 
that they are our friends.” 

“Our friends!” 

I looked at the boys. “I bet you don’t know as 
much about snakes as my Pal does,” I said. 

“Bet you don’t, either,” said Tommy, defiantly. 

“Well, well, children,” Pal interposed. “None of 
you know very much about them, I am afraid; but 
if you will cross the meadow with me, where we can 
sit in the shade of those big maples, I will tell you 
some interesting things about them.” 


OUR FRIENDS THE SNAKES 


29 


So we crossed over to the big trees and all sat 
down, impatient to hear what Pal had to tell us. 

“In the first place,” Pal began, “snakes are our 
friends, not our enemies. For instance, take the 
snake that you have just tried to kill. Tommy. That 
was a Milk Snake; and were it not for the Milk 
Snake, the Garter Snake, the Green Snake and vari- 
ous others, the farmer who owns that field we have 
just crossed would probably have had no grass crop.” 

“No grass crop!” exclaimed Tommy. “What have 
snakes got to do with grass crops?” 

“Just this, my boy. Everything in nature has its 
particular enemy. For example, the little field mice 
feed on the tender roots and shoots of the farmer’s 
crops. Snakes are enemies of the mice and feed 
upon them. If a snake should see a little mouse 
making for its hole, which runs just beneath the roots 
of the grass, it would make a spring for it, and swal- 
low it. So, you see, the snakes, by killing off the 
mice, keep the number smaller, so they cannot eat 
up the whole crop.” 

“Yes, but Pal,” I said, “people are much nicer 
than mice, and if no snakes are killed they might 
kill the people.” 

“No, Pyxie, if people leave the snakes alone, the 
snakes will leave the people alone. A snake will 
never show fight unless it thinks it is going to be 
attacked and cannot get away. Then it coils itself, 
as doubtless some of you know; for a snake can never 


30 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


strike — that is, dart out its head far enough to bite — 
unless it is coiled.” 

“Well, I’ve seen snakes lying out straight, wag- 
ging their red fangs,” said Tommy. 

“Yes, and I know a little girl who said she was 
chased all the way home by a big black snake once,” 
said I. 

Pal laughed, and shook his head. “I am afraid 
you are both wrong,” he said. “What you thought 
were fangs. Tommy, was the tongue, which is forked 
so that the snake can catch insects. That is another 
way in which they prove to be our friends, for many 
insects are injurious to the crops. And as for the 
black snake chasing the little girl home, Pyxie, she 
must have imagined that; for snakes are timid crea- 
tures, and no snake would ever run after anyone. But 
some few snakes do have fangs, children. Do you 
know what fangs are?” 

We shook our heads, for we had all thought that 
the forked tongue was the fangs. 

“Well, fangs,” he said, “are really teeth, with a 
hole straight through the middle of them that con- 
nects with a poison bag just back of the eyes. Some 
kinds of snakes have two of these teeth, or fangs, one 
on each side of their jaws. Then when a poison 
snake bites the poison comes out of these little bags, 
through the holes in its teeth, and poisons whatever it 
has bitten.” 

“And hasn’t that Milk Snake that we saw any 
poison teeth?” I asked. 


OUR FRIENDS THE SNAKES 


31 


“No, the Milk Snake and the other snakes you 
would be apt to see in the fields and meadows, or 
among the dead leaves in the woods, are perfectly 
harmless. There are only four kinds of snakes in 
this country that are poisonous.” 

“What are their names?” asked Tommy. “Gee I 
I’d like to see a bunch of them fighting and biting 
each other.” 

“If you saw a bunch. Pal, what would you do?” I 
asked. 

“I’d get away as quickly as I could; and if you 
should see a snake and not be sure whether it was 
a harmless one or not, I would advise you to go away 
from it too; for as I have said, if you will leave them 
alone they will leave you alone.” 

“But are there any poisonous ones around her^?”, 
^sked Willie. 

“There may possibly be two poisonous kinds, but 
I have never seen any here, for they are very rare. 
They are. Tommy, the Copperhead and the Rattle- 
snake, and they are not found in meadows, but on 
rocky ledges where the soil is dry. The Rattlesnake 
has a jointed horny end to his tail,” Pal continued, 
“which he rattles as a warning to you not to come 
too near. So you can always tell him by that. And 
the Copperhead you may know by his very pointed 
nose, wide jaws and the copper color of the scales 
upon his head.” 

“But you said there were four kinds of poisonous 


32 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


snakes, Pal. What are the other two, and where do 
they live?” I asked. 

“The other two are the Water Moccasin, which is 
found in the South, and the very rare Coral Snake, 
which lives ’way down in Florida; but, except for 
these, all other snakes are harmless and our friends; 
and even the poisonous ones won’t hurt us if we do 
not interfere with them. 

“Here is a little rhyme which may help you to re- 
member what I have told you: 

'T rattle my rattles,'* the Rattlesnake said, 

warn you I'm here in my rattlesnake bed. 
do not get rattled, and corner me here, 

*‘For in that case I'd strike and would bite you, my 
dear." 

The Copperhead hissed, and said, ^^If this is true, 
*^We are somewhat alike, for that's just what I'd do." 

The harmless ones said, ‘‘Why aren't you ashamed! 
“It's because of your tempers that we have been 
blamed/' 




A TREE-HOPPER 



Fairy Thorns 


M 


E bright day my Pal said to 
me, “Come, Pyxie, let’s go out 
to the woods, and see what the 
little wood-folks are doing this 
afternoon.” 

Of course I wanted to go, so 
I ran and told Mother where 
we were going, and in a very 
little while we were on the 
edge of a deep, green wood, our eyes and ears all 
ready to notice whatever might be going on about us. 

Pretty soon we came to a little tree with lots of 
small, light green leaves in rows along the stems. 
“Oh, what kind of a tree is that?” I asked. “Just 
see how the branches are all covered with sharp 
thorns!” 

“That is a baby Locust-tree, and some of these 
thorns are most interesting, if you will look at them 
closely.” 

So I looked at them, and they all looked just alike, 
and I said: “Oh, pshaw! I don’t see anything in- 



34 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


teresting about these thorns 1 Let’s go and look for 
some of the wood-folks.” 

But my Pal took hold of a branch and drew it 
down towards me, and what do you think happened! 
About half of the thorns^ one after the other, began 
hopping ofif, and flying into a taller tree near by. 

“Why, Pal, what in the world are they? Are they 
fairies?” 

“Well,” he said, “I think we can call them Thorn 
Fairies, for that would be a very pretty name for 
these clever little folks. But they are really insects 
named Tree-hoppers, and they are shaped like 
the Locust-tree thorns to protect them from their 
enemies.” 

“Enemies? I didn’t know insects had enemies. 
What are they?” 

“Chiefly the birds, for birds feed on insects; and 
if they should discover that those were insects, and 
not thorns, they would fly right down onto the Lo- 
cust-tree and gobble them up.” 

“Oh, please catch one and show it to me with your 
magnifying glass. Why, it’s the funniest thing I 
ever saw! It’s all covered up with a hard shell!” 

“Yes, Pyxie, that covering is its armor, which 
grows in the shape of a thorn.” 

“Oh, let me look again! Why, there is its face 
peeping out, and there are two funny little round 
eyes. Look at it. Pal !” 

“Yes, I know; they are old friends of mine. Do 


FAIRY THORNS 


35 


you see its six little feet sticking out beneath, three 
on this side and three on that?” 

“Oh, yes; aren’t they cute? Who would ever 
guess a thorn had feet. But where are its wings?” 

“There, Pyxie, just showing from under the sides 
of its armor. Now look here at the foot of the tree 
— do you know what that little pile of chipped grass 
and dead leaves is?” 

“Oh, of course; that’s just an ants’ nest. But I 
want to hear more about the Tree-hoppers.” 

“Very well, you will in a minute. But now I 
want you to watch these ants that have just left their 
nest, and are crawling up the tree-trunk. See, there I 
They have reached the lowest branch, and are going 
out to where that first little Tree-hopper is, for they 
can always tell whether it is a real, or a fairy, thorn.” 

“Oh, are they going to hurt it?” 

“No, indeed, they are only going to milk it.” 

“Milk it! Oh, you’re fooling!” 

“You just wait — see now, they have reached the 
Tree-hopper, and one of them is softly stroking her 
back with his long feelers. Now watch closely. See 
at the end of the Tree-hopper’s body that clear little 
bubble growing bigger?” 

“Yes, yes,” I said. “There! The ant is drinking 
it, I do believe!” 

“Yes, I told you he was going to milk her. It 
tastes as good to him as your nice, fresh cow’s milk 
does to you every morning for your breakfast.” 

“Well, isn’t that ant smart! Oh, look. Pal! That 


36 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


biggest ant has the Tree-hopper by the leg, and now 
he has dragged her to the trunk of the tree, — and has 
started down. What is he going to do with her?” 

“Watch and see, Pyxie. There! See, he has her 
in such a position that she is a helpless captive, and 
he is taking her down into his nest.” 

“Why he is, sure enough. But I don’t see how 
he can. Pal. She’s twice as big as he is.” 

“Yes, but he is twice as strong as she is; and be- 
sides, she doesn’t seem to be trying to escape.” 

“Perhaps she is too frightened; but anyway, what 
makes him want her in his nest? She is much big- 
ger than he is; she would take up as much room in 
his nest as a cow would in our house. And just im- 
agine a cow running around inside our house!” 

We both laughed at that, but very soon Pal stop- 
ped laughing and said: “Well, little Pyxie, you have 
finished my story yourself without realizing it, for 
she is a cow — an ant’s cow!” 

“Gracious alive!” I exclaimed. “That’s the very 
queerest thing I ever heard of — ants having cows! 
And do they really and truly milk her?” 

“Yes, as you saw her being milked a few moments 
ago, and she doesn’t mind being milked by an ant at 
all, but rather seems to like it.” 

“Well, I bet you when I tell Tommy and Willie 
about them they won’t believe me. Now what else 
do they do?” 

“When her captor has dragged her down into the 
nest the other ants build a separate chamber for her, 


FAIRY THORNS 


37 


and for such other captive Tree-hoppers as they may 
have, and she is tended and fed, and stroked every 
day with the feelers of the ‘milk-boy ant,’ so as to 
induce her to give them her milk.” 

“And you say she doesn’t mind being a captive?” 
I asked. 

“No, indeed. She is so well cared for by the ants 
that she likes it, and never tries to run away, but is 
content with her lot of giving nice, fresh milk to her 
ant family.” 

The Tree-hopper lives on the Locust-tree; 

She is shaped like a thorn, and thus you see 
She is well protected from the birds, 

And lives along the stems in herds, 

But that she's a cow the ant well knows. 

So up the Locust-tree he goes 
And takes her captive to his nest, 

Where she gives milk when well caressed. 







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THE WOOD KITTEN 







KNOCKED at Pal’s door. 

I “Hello, Pal! are we going for 
our walk before breakfast this 
morning, as you promised?” 

Pal opened the door, and 
stood, all dressed, smiling at 
me as he said, “Well, you are 
an early little bird! But I am 
ready for you, you see.” So we 
tip-toed from the house, and walked towards the 
woods. The dew was fresh and sparkling on the 
grass and flowers, the birds were singing as if 
there was more song in their little bodies than they 
could possibly hold, and the air was deliciously fresh 
and sweet. It is awfully nice to live so near the cool 
green woods, for it makes me feel as though I had 
so many friends always near. The little wood-folks 
sing me to sleep every night with their good-night 
songs, and help the sun to wake me every morning. 
You know the reason my Pal calls me Pyxie is be- 
cause I love the wood-folks so ; for a Pyxie is a little 



40 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


woodland fairy who dances about in the woods, flit- 
ting in and out among the trees just as the sunshine 
does. 

Very soon we came to a grassy path that led us 
into the heart of the woods. The branches of the 
trees on each side of the path met over our heads, 
and shaded us from the sun which peeped at us be- 
tween the quivering leaves. 

“Don’t the moss and the grass look lovely, Pyxie, 
all spotted with the sunshine?” 

“Oh! look, Pal, at that darling little black and 
white kitten,” I interrupted, “right down there in 
the path!” And I started towards it, but Pal caught 
my arm and said: “You had better watch that kit- 
ten from a distance.” I didn’t know why he stopped 
me, but we stood still, watching the kitten frolicking 
in the path, playing with a piece of stick and wav- 
ing her fluffy tail over her back. 

“Isn’t she cute! Let’s go and catch her and take 
her home. What do you suppose she is doing, ’way 
out here in the woods?” 

Just then Joker, my little fox-terrier, who had 
followed us and was ranging about, dashed for- 
ward, barking with joy. He does love to chase cats, 
and now he thought he saw a splendid opportunity 
to have some fun; so on he flew, right up to the 
kitten. 

No sooner had he reached her, however, than he 
began a retreat towards us, yelping and howling 
with pain and all the time trying to rub his head 


THE WOOD KITTEN 


41 


upon the ground, while the little kitten scuttled away 
deeper into the woods. 

“Why, what in the world is the matter with Jok- 
er?” I cried. But just then the most terrible odor 
reached us, and Pal, grabbing my hand, began run- 
ning as hard as he could, dragging me after him, 
while Joker made for a nearby brook and plunged 
in. 

“Gracious!” I cried, after Pal had stopped and 
we stood upon a little knoll quite a distance away, 
where the odor did not reach us. “That was awful! 
It smelled as bad as a Skunk!” 

“A Skunk! Well, I guess it did, Pyxie,” he 
laughed; “for it was a Skunk.” 

“That pretty little kitten a Skunk?” I exclaimed. 
“I didn’t know Skunks looked like that!” 

“They do look like kittens,” Pal said, “and in fact, 
they are sometimes called Wood-kittens, and also 
Pole-cats.” 

“But why didn’t we smell it before?” 

“Well,” Pal said, “I guess this means a story as 
usual; eh, my little Pyxie?” 

I nodded and let go of my nose, which I had been 
holding all this time, and Pal started right in to tell 
me about them. 

“To begin with. Skunks are nice little Wood-kit- 
tens if left alone, and do not always smell badly, but, 
like other wild creatures, have their own peculiar 
way of defending themselves.” 


42 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


“Defending themselves? Do all the wood-folks 
dislike their odor as much as we do?” 

“Perhaps not,” he said, “though I think it is prob- 
able that most of them do. This odor, as you call it, 
is a liquid which is held in a sac in its body, and 
when an enemy comes too near, or attacks it, it 
squirts this liquid into the enemy’s eyes, thus blind- 
ing him for the time being; for it smarts and burns 
dreadfully, and makes his eyes very sore.” 

“Then that’s the reason Joker howled so. I 
thought it was just because he hated the smell — poor 
old Joker!” 

So I began calling, “Here, Joker! Here, Joker!” 
and very soon Joker came into sight, his tail between 
his legs and looking the very picture of shame. 

“I do believe he’s ashamed because he thinks he 
was beaten by a cat,” I cried to Pal. “Poor old fel- 
low, come here!” But as he came doubtfully nearer 
I suddenly understood his shame, for he smelled 
awfully. 

“Oh, oh!” I almost sobbed, “is my poor Joker 
always going to smell like a Skunk?” 

Joker approached still nearer, for he wanted sym- 
pathy; but I grabbed hold of my nose again and 
said : “Get away, get away. Joker!” and began back- 
ing ofif too, for the smell was terrible. 

He slunk away and plunged into the brook once 
more, after which he crawled off into the woods, still 
rubbing his eyes, and lay down mournfully, as 
though he knew he was unfit for company. 


THE WOOD KITTEN 


43 


Pal laughed and said, “Don't worry, Pyxie; he is 
a pretty miserable dog now, and I guess after this 
he will leave cats alone; but he will soon lose that 
odor.” 

I felt better when he told me that, and said, “Then 
tell me some more about the Pole-cats, please. Pal.” 

“Well,” he replied, “as you and also Joker have 
learned, it is not generally an offensively smelling 
creature, but cleverly uses the liquid from its sac 
when defending itself from an enemy. You remem- 
ber, don’t you, when we first saw it — before Joker’s 
attack — that it had no odor, and you thought it just 
an ordinary little kitten?” 

“Yes, that’s so; but tell me, do they always live in 
the woods. Pal?” 

“Yes, either in or near the woods. When a couple 
of them begin housekeeping they burrow into the 
ground, just as a rabbit or a woodchuck does. Their 
burrow is generally among the roots of a tree, where 
they dig a round chamber for themselves and line it 
with leaves and moss to keep it warm. There they 
stay during the winter, sleeping most of the time.” 

“Then they build a regular nest, don’t they? But 
of course they don’t lay eggs,” I laughingly re- 
marked. 

“No, they do not lay eggs, for they are mammals — 
that is, animals that nurse their babies — and mam- 
mals never lay eggs; though, as you say, their homes 
are nests, and are very snug and warm ones, too. 
There every spring they have a litter of little kittens. 


44 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


four or five of them, just as your tabby-cat does at 
home.” 

“For goodness sake! What can they find to eat, 
’way under there?” 

“At first the mother feeds them from her breast, as 
a cat does her kittens. Then as they grow older they 
all go forth at night to prowl for food.” 

“Why do they go at night? I should think they 
would be in bed asleep at night.” 

“No, Skunks sleep a good deal during the day, and 
that is one reason why we run across them so seldom. 
Therefore, you see, Pyxie, if you had not gotten up 
this morning when the little wood-folks first called 
you, you would not have been so likely to have seen 
one.” 

I laughed and said, “Well, I guess Joker is aw- 
fully sorry he got up so early this morning! But, 
tell me, what do they find to eat when they go prowl- 
ing at night?” 

“All sorts of things,” Pal said, “for the woods is a 
wonderful place in which to dine on berries and 
buds and sweet roots. They are blood-thirsty little 
creatures, too, and will eat almost any small animal 
or bird they can find. In the spring they slink about 
hunting for the nests of birds that build upon the 
ground, and will suck all their eggs. They are not 
friends of the farmers who keep chickens, either, as 
so many of the wood-folks are; for they will sneak 
into the chicken yard and kill the chickens and suck 
their eggs.” 


THE WOOD KITTEN 


45 


“Well, I think they are perfectly horrid, and 1 
don’t see that they do any good at all. Pal,” I said; 
“and you told me that every creature was in some 
way our friend.” 

“And so they are, Pyxie, for even Skunks, which 
you think are so horrid, are a great help to the farm- 
er who is trying to raise good crops, for they destroy 
great numbers of mice and insects that otherwise 
would injure his grain; and besides, they furnish one 
of the softest furs that we use in winter to help keep 
us warm.” 

The Skunk is striped with black and white; 

He lives within the wood; 

And if you do not fool with him, 

You*ll smell just as you should. 


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THE MONARCH 



he/ Monarch 


ILLIE! WILLIE!” I called 
across the fence that divided 
our yards. “Come over here. 
I’ve got something awfully in- 
teresting to show you.” 

Willie stuck his head out of 
the window and said, “All 
right, I’ll be there in a minute. 
Tommy is here — can he come, too?” 

“Yes,” I said, “but hurry.” 

Willie ran down his steps and jumped the fence, 
but Tommy put his hands in his pockets and, whist- 
ling, sauntered out through the gate and walked 
around to our house while we waited for him. 

“Why don’t you hurry. Tommy?” said Willie. 
“You see Pyxie is waiting for you.” 

“Oh, shucks!” said Tommy; “there won’t be noth- 
ing to see when I get there.” 

“Well, you just come in the house and I’ll show 
you,” I said, and I led them into Pal’s study, where 
he was standing with a box in his hand. 


48 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


“Here they are, Pal! Now please tell them all 
about the caterpillar, just as you were telling me a 
moment ago.” 

We gathered about him, and he held the box down 
so we could look into it through its glass top. 

“Now, children, you see this yellow and black and 
white caterpillar, with the colored rings running 
around its body, that is hanging head downward 
from the top of this box. This is the caterpillar that 
turns into the beautiful Monarch butterfly which I 
showed you the other day over in the field. It hangs 
there slowly revolving and making its chrysalis, or 
little house, in which it will go to sleep for about two 
weeks.” 

“It will be a regular insect ‘Sleeping Beauty!’ ” I 
laughed. 

Pal laughed too and said, “But there will be no 
Prince to awaken her. Never mind, she will awaken 
at the right moment herself, and come out of her 
house, for she still has her chief duty in life to per- 
form. But at the present there is no use of my tell- 
ing you any more, for, like people, she builds her 
house rather slowly. However, if you will come 
back in a few hours, you will see her home finished 
and hanging from the top of the box, just where the 
caterpillar hangs now.” 

“That’s bully!” Willie said. “I wonder what it 
will look like? I’m crazy to see it.” 

“Humph!” said Tommy; “I don’t §ee how an ugly 
old caterpillar like that can make a house.” 


THE MONARCH 


49 


“But she can, though,” I said. “I don’t think she’s 
ugly anyway. I think she’s pretty. You just come 
back this afternoon and you’ll see her house, won’t 
they, Pal?” 

“You’ll see what you’ll see,” again laughed Pal. 

I stood watching the caterpillar for a long time. 
It was continually jerking its head back and forth. 
At last I grew tired of watching it, for I couldn’t 
see that it was building anything, so I ran away to 
play, forgetting for the time all about it. 

Early in the afternoon Pal told me to call the boys 
again, so I hollered for them, and in a minute they 
came running over. Pal met us at the door, holding 
the box so we could see into it, and said: “There, 
Tommy! What have you to say to that?” 

And what do yo’u think we saw! There, where the 
caterpillar had hung, was swinging a beautiful pea- 
green chrysalis, about the size and somewhat the 
shape of a thimble, studded with rows of gold- 
headed knobs across the front and sides. 

Tommy stared, and then gave a whistle. 

“Oh, how beautiful!” I cried. “And is that really 
the house of the caterpillar we saw only a little while 
ago?” 

“Yes,” Pal said, “and as I have told you, she will 
sleep there for about two weeks. When the time 
draws near for her to come out I’ll let you watch 
with me again.” 

“But how will you know when the time comes, 
Pal?” 


50 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


“Because,” said he, “when the house begins to turn 
a purplish color, and its walls show small cracks, 
then I know she has changed into a butterfly and is 
waking up.” 

“Gee!” Tommy said; “anybody could forget all 
about her in two weeks — that’s an awful long time!” 

“Yes,” Willie agreed, “but it’s worth waiting for, I 
think. Don’t you, Pyxie?” 

“Most everything beautiful in this world is worth 
waiting for,” said my Pal. 

I didn’t forget about it, though, for every day I 
would go and peek at the little green house; and 
sure enough one day I saw it was beginning to turn 
purple, and that there were little cracks in its walls. 

“Pal!” I called. “Come quick! I do believe 
the little green house is going to open, right now!” 

“Yes, Pyxie, you stand and watch it, and I will 
call the boys.” 

I did so, watching the cracks grow larger and 
larger, until by the time Pal and the two boys had 
come in we could plainly see a large red and black 
object coming out of the upper part of the house. 
She crawled to the side of the box, and there began 
unfolding and drying out her large painted wings, 
which we soon saw were red with black veins and 
orange yellow spots. 

“Gee!” said Willie. “She’s pretty!” 

And Tommy thought so too, I am sure, for he 
said, “Well, she did better than I thought she could. 


THE MONARCH 


51 


She ain’t so wonderful, though; I’ve seen dozens 
of ’em just like her.” 

“Of course you have,” said Pal, “for she is one of 
our commonest butterflies. You can see dozens of 
them any sunny day you want to, in the fields, and 
also in your mother’s flower-garden, sucking the 
honey from the flowers; for that is what they live 
upon. They are wonderful, however, in their hab- 
its; for, unlike any other butterflies, they can fly 
over a thousand miles.” 

“For goodness sake!” I said; “how can such deli- 
cate frail little creatures fly as far as that?” 

“They have very strong wings, Pyxie dear, 
stronger than those of any butterfly I know of, and 
in fact in some ways they are very much like birds. 
For in the fall they gather together in enormous 
flocks, thousands and thousands of them, and fly 
South to spend the winter there.” 

“What makes them do that?” Willie asked. 

“That is their vacation time. You know how nice 
it is to go away on a vacation, don’t you, after you 
have been busy at school?” 

“You bet!” he answered. 

“Well,” continued Pal, “before they go they are 
busy laying eggs on Milkweed plants. They lay 
them there because that is the food-plant of the baby 
caterpillars, and when the eggs hatch out the little 
caterpillars will find plenty of food without having 
to hunt for it. Soon they become big caterpillars 
and set about finding a place to build their little 


52 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


houses, just like this little house you saw here in the 
box.” 

“I don’t see how any butterfly can fly a thousand 
miles without stopping,” said Tommy, skeptically. 

“They don’t fly that far without stopping. They 
fly only in the daytime, alighting each night for rest, 
usually upon some tree. I have seen a tree at dusk 
so completely covered by them that no green leaves 
could be seen at all!” 

“Mercy me! I didn’t know there were so many 
butterflies in the world!” I said. “Did you, Willie?” 

“No, I don’t think I did,” Willie admitted. 

“I did,” said Tommy; “I saw millions and mil- 
lions of them in a museum once.” 

None of us heeded Tommy’s boast though, and I 
asked, “How far south do they fly. Pal?” 

“Down as far as Florida,” he said. “They have 
even been known to fly several hundred miles out to 
sea and alight upon a ship.” 

“Why would they do that? That’s awful silly!” 
Tommy said. “There ain’t nothing to eat on the 
ocean.” 

“Maybe those butterflies had gotten lost,” Pal an- 
swered. “But most of them reach the South all 
right.” 

“What do they do while they’re South?” asked 
Willie. 

“Why, as I have told you, it’s their vacation time, 
and they have a nice, long rest, and find lots of flow- 
ers to feed on; but at the first signs of spring they 


THE MONARCH 


53 


become restless, and finally, in small groups or 
singly, they start flying back toward their summer 
home in the North.” 

“Gracious! Isn’t that wonderful! It doesn’t seem 
possible that such frail creatures could make such 
a long journey twice! But tell me, do they lay more 
eggs down South before they start back?” I asked. 

“Probably not; but during their flight toward the 
North they stop along the way when they see some 
convenient milkweed, and lay some eggs there. 
Thus, you see, unlike other kinds of butterflies, they 
have two families in a year, hatched in different 
places.” 

Then taking the lid from the box. Pal said: “Now 
watch me. See, her wings are dry, and I am going 
to let her fly out of this window. There!” 

The beautiful butterfly flew only to the window 
ledge, where she stopped, as though she didn’t want 
to leave us. 

“Why, look. Pal! She doesn’t want to go!” I cried, 
excitedly. 

“Oh, yes she does, Pyxie dear, for no creature 
would want to be a prisoner this lovely August day. 
She is trying her wings a little before venturing too 
far; that is all. Now see! She has flown to the 
trunk of that tree.” 

And there we watched her, quivering in the sun- 
shine, for a few minutes more. Then high above her 
we saw another Monarch skimming through the air. 


54 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


He must have seen her there, too, for down he flut- 
tered to her side. 

“Oh, look! look!” Willie said. “There’s another 
one just like her.” 

“Yes,” my Pal said, “that is her sweetheart who 
has come a-wooing. See, he is telling her the secret 
of his love.” 

And now, her wings having grown stronger, they 
sailed away on their honeymoon, to be spent amongst 
the milkweed and the flowers. 

The Monarch of the Butterflies 
Wears robes of black and red. 

And on its wings are golden spots; 

It loves the Milkweed bed. 

Its wings are strong, and it can fly 
A thousand miles away; 

But you can see it in the fields 
On any summer day. 





A SOLDIER ANT 



The Village Kingdom 


WISH I could see a kingdom,” 
I said one day to my Pal. 
“Tommy’s been abroad, and 
has seen all kinds of kingdoms, 
haven’t you, Tommy?” 

“You bet your life,” said 
Tommy, boastfully. “I saw 
the Queen of England out 
riding once, and there were 

soldiers to guard her, and ” 

“Well, children,” said Pal^ “if you will cross the 
road here into the woods /I will show you several 
kingdoms.” / 

“Really truly kingdoms ?’J we both exclaimed. 
“Yes, just as really triJy kingdoms as can be 
found in any country, eacn with a queen, and sol- 
diers, and workers, and everything. Would you like 
me to show them to you?” 

“Yes, Pal, please do!” I cried excitedly, dancing 
toward the gate, while Tommy and Pal came along 
behind. We crossed the road and were soon on a 



56 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


gentle slope of woodland in the shade of the tall 
oaks. Pal went up to a little pile of grass chips and 
bark and said, “There, children — there’s one of your 
kingdoms!” 

While we were still looking at that, quite puzzled. 
Pal walked over to a flat stone a few feet away, 
saying as he turned it over, “and here is another.” 

“Humph! They’re nothin’ but ants,” said Tom- 
my. “Kingdoms have kings and queens! I’ve seen 
a real queen.” 

“And so you shall again,” said Pal, “for a queen 
rules each of these kingdoms.” 

“Oh, do tell us all about it. Pal. Wouldn’t you 
like to hear it. Tommy?” Tommy nodded, and Pal 
began : 

“First of all, ants build their nests like little vil- 
lages, with many rooms, which take the place of 
houses, each room being built for some particular 
use. These are connected by passageways or little 
streets. For instance, the queen has her particular 
chamber where she spends almost all of her time 
laying eggs. She has guards about her, who wash 
her, and feed her, and stroke her, and are always 
with her, to see that no harm befalls her. As she 
lays her eggs, certain ones of the guard take charge of 
them, and carry them into another room, specially 
prepared for them, keeping them clean and warm 
until they hatch out into little baby ants, which are a 
kind of grub. 

“Then others of the guard take these grubs into 


THE VILLAGE KINGDOM 


57 


still another chamber, where they feed and tend 
them until each grub has spun its little cocoon. 
These little cocoons serve as cradles for the baby ants, 
and in them they go fast asleep for several days. 

“After they have had a nice, long, cozy rest, they 
hatch out into the regular ants, just like the ones 
who have been tending them; and they, too, have 
to join the ranks of the workers.” 

“Well, for goodness sake!” I said. “They are the 
smartest wood-folks you have told us about.” And 
Tommy must have thought so too, for he had stop- 
ped throwing stones and was listening with all his 
might. 

“I have not told you all yet, Pyxie dear; for there 
is still another crowd of workers whose duty it is to 
keep the nests clean, picking up and throwing out 
the discarded cocoons, or any other rubbish that can 
be found; for an ants’ colony is a perfect ‘Spotless 
Town.’ 

“Then, too, I told you, if you remember, each vil- 
lage has its army, which, of course, stays near the en- 
trance and keeps guard over it. This army is made 
up of the soldier ants, which have very large heads 
and are armed with strong jaws that have cutting 
edges.” 

“And can they fight?” asked Tommy. 

“Fight!” said my Pal. “You just ought to see 
them. Perhaps they may have a war while we are 
here.” 


58 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


“Gee-whizz!” said Tommy; “that would be 
bully!” 

Pal smiled and went on telling us about the ants. 

“Now these under the stone are known as Har- 
vester ants — that is, they go forth and gather kernels 
of wheat and other grains, as well as seeds of grasses, 
which they store away in storage chambers in their 
nests, thus having food always at hand, winter and 
summer.” 

Then stepping back to the little mound of grass 
chips and bark that he had first shown us, he con- 
tinued: “The ants whose kingdom this is are called 
Slave-making ants. These ants have a particularly 
strong force of soldiers, and when they want more 
slaves their soldiers march forth in columns, attack- 
ing other ants of different species which they cap- 
ture and bring back to their nests. These captives 
are made to do the tasks which otherwise they them- 
selves would have to do.” 

“I like the Slave-making ants best,” said Tommy, 
making a face at me. 

“I don’t — I like the Harvesting ants much better. 
Are there any more kinds of ants. Pal?” 

“Oh, yes,” he said, “so many you couldn’t remem- 
ber all of them if I told you. Some, for instance, are 
cattle-men and keep plant-lice in herds under sheds 
which they build for them on the stems of trees.” 

“Build sheds! Why, Pal, how could they build 
sheds? You must be telling a fairy story now.” 

“No, Pyxie, I don’t tell you fairy stories, you 


THE VILLAGE KINGDOM 


59 


know; for the true stories about what the little 
wood-folks do are much more wonderful than any- 
thing a make-believe fairy could do.” 

“Well, tell us how they can build sheds, then,” 
Tommy said. 

“I will. Tommy. First they gather little bits of 
wood chips, and these they chew and chew until they 
have become a mass of pulp. With this pulp they 
build the little sheds on the tree stems which I just 
told you about so as to protect their plant-lice cattle 
from the storms.” 

“I wouldn’t mind seeing one of those sheds,” said 
Tommy. 

“I will show you one that I found the other day,” 
Pal promised, “when we get back home.” 

“But what do they keep the cattle for?” I asked. 

“For the milk they give,” replied Pal. “And 
other ants keep tree-hoppers in their nests as cattle 
for the same reason, as I was telling you the other 
day. Still others keep beetles in their nests to help 
clean up for them. There is still another kind that 
have little gardens down under the ground, where 
they grow tiny fungus plants upon which they feed. 
These little gardens are kept weeded and tended 
with the greatest care by a few workers who are 
gardeners.” 

“Oh! look at the ants coming out of the mound- 
nest!” cried Tommy. 

“And columns of them are coming from under- 
neath the stone!” I exclaimed. 


60 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


“Children, you are lucky. We are going to see a 
war, after all,” said Pal; “for although we have 
heard or seen no signal, there must have been one 
sent. See, they are marshalling their forces, and are 
going to fight it out upon this little battle-field at 
our feet. There! see, the columns have met, and 
the Slave-makers are clashing their antennae against 
those of the Harvesters, as men clash swords in their 
battles. Now watch them use their strong jaws, 
biting at each other fiercely!” 

“Hooray!” Tommy yelled, “the Slave-making ants 
are beating!” 

Pal and I stood by without saying anything, 
watching the war that raged so fiercely within a few 
feet of us. I didn’t like it very much, for presently, 
strewn all about the battle-field were the dead and 
dying soldiers of the Harvesters. 

“Yes,” Pal said, “the Slave-makers are generally 
the victors, I believe. Tommy. Now watch them 
carry their ‘spoils of war’ to their nests. Look at 
these here! They have a Harvester captive. They 
will make a slave of him, and many others like him.” 

“Is the Harvesters’ village all broken up?” I asked. 

“Yes, they are probably all killed off or captured, 
except their queen.” 

“Golly!” Tommy cried, “what a big ant this is 
crawling up out of the Harvesters’ nest!” 

“That is their queen. Tommy,” Pal said. “Her 
forces have lost, and I think she is trying to escape 
from her enemies. Should she do so, and find a 


THE VILLAGE KINGDOM 


61 


village of smaller ants, she will fight her way into 
their nest, kill their queen, and take possession her- 
self.” 

“That is the bulliest thing you have showed us,” 
said Tommy grinning, and poking about among the 
dead ants. 

“I really believe ants are just as smart as people; 
don’t you. Tommy?” I asked. 

“They’re bully fighters, all right!” he admitted. 

Ants have village kingdoms, 

Ruled over by a Queen. 

They wash, and brush, and tend her, 

And keep their village clean. 

And some of them are soldiers. 

Whose weapons are strong jaws; 

While others gather food; and all 
Are governed by strict laws. 









TheBat 


T DUSK one evening, just after 
we had finished dinner, Pal 
and I went out into our grove, 
hoping that we might discover 
a stray breeze there; for it had 
been very warm all day. 

“Oh, goodness!” I said, “I 
wish I were a duck, or a fish, or 
something instead of a girl.” 

“Why do you wish that, Pyxie?” Pal asked, smil- 
ing. 

“Then I could be swimming around in the water, 
and cooling off,” I explained. “I’ll bet Willie and 
Tommy have been down in Jones’s swimming pool 
’most all day. It’s awful warm to be a girl, any- 
how.” 

“Well, well, Pyxie, we’ll soon cool off here. Don’t 
you feel that nice little breeze that’s springing up, 
making the leaves all clap their hands for joy.” 

And sure enough I very soon began to feel all nice 
and cool, just as though every little fairy in the grove 



64 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


was fanning me with her wings as hard as ever she 
could. 

“Why, look at those birds flying around! I sup- 
posed the birds had all gone to roost by this time 
of day,” I said. 

Pal looked up and saw two dark objects skimming 
and circling about over our heads. 

“They are bats, Pyxie; not birds.” 

“But isn’t a bat a kind of bird?” I asked. 

“No,” Pal laughed. “It is more like a mouse.” 

“A mouse!” I exclaimed. “Well, I certainly didn’t 
know that. But how can a mouse have feathers?” 

“It has no feathers,” he said. 

“No feathers! But it flies. How can it fly if it 
has no feathers for its wings?” 

“Well, that is a long story, and I would like you to 
see one closely before I try to explain to you about 
them.” 

“There! Look! Did you see that? One just went 
in at the sitting-room window!” I cried. And then 
we heard my mother give a terrible squeal and run 
out of the room, slamming the door. 

“Oh, do you suppose it has hurt her? Please come 
with me and see. Pal,” I almost sobbed, running to- 
ward the side door. Pal following. There I bumped 
into Mother, who with a towel over her head and a 
broom in her hand was starting out to call for Pal 
to help her drive out the bat. 

When he saw her with her head all tied up, she 


THE BAT 


65 


looked so funny he stopped and leaned against the 
porch railing and laughed and laughed. 

“What are you laughing at?” she asked. “There’s 
nothing particularly funny about having a bat in the 
house, is there? Why, it has been trying to get in 
my hair!” She looked horrified, and I began to feel 
scared too, and to wonder whether I hadn’t better 
tie up my curls; and all this time we could hear 
the bat banging itself against the sitting-room walls 
in a perfect fury. 

Pal stopped laughing and started toward the sit- 
ting-room door. “You are putting foolish notions 
into Pyxie’s head,” he said, “for no bat will ever try 
to get into anyone’s hair. The poor little creature is 
terrified and blinded by the light, that’s all, and is 
trying to escape. Come, Pyxie,” he said, opening 
the door of the room. “It won’t hurt you, and I 
believe you would like to look at one while I tell 
you about it.” 

So we went in and closed the door, leaving Mother 
in the hall murmuring something or other about how 
different children were when she was young. 

“Slap, slap!” went the bat as she flew blindly 
about the room. 

“Here,” said Pal, picking up his butterfly net, 
“we’ll soon catch her.” And he started after her, 
swooping his net, until presently he caught her in its 
bag, where she struggled and fought desperately. 

“Now, Pyxie, if you will get me that bottle of 
chloroform and that bit of cotton right there in the 


66 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


closet, we will soon put the poor, frightened creature 
to sleep.” 

“Oh, are you going to kill it?” I asked. 

“Yes, dear, for I want to show you just what a bat 
is like, and besides I need it to put into one of my 
glass cases in the museum.” 

So holding the bat, which was still in the net, 
closely in his hand, he told me how to wet the cotton 
with the chloroform, and then he held it in front of 
the bat’s little nose. Very soon she stopped trying 
to escape, and lay very still. Then he took her from 
the net and said: “See how much she looks like 
a little mouse!” And she really did, for her body 
was all covered with soft gray fur, and she had a 
mouth with rows of little sharp, white teeth, and her 
furry ears, quite large for the size of her face, stood 
straight up on either side of her head, as though she 
were listening all the time. 

“Well, I declare!” I exclaimed. “And do all bats 
look like that?” 

“Yes, bats are all this shape, but there are several 
different kinds, some larger and some smaller than 
this one, and some have brown fur, while others are 
black and still others are reddish.” 

“Now show me her wings; for I certainly never 
saw wings that didn’t have feathers, and I can see 
that she has no feathers, as you said.” 

“Well, what do you call these things?” Pal asked, 
pointing to her sides, where there seemed to be folds 
and folds of leathery skin. 


THE BAT 


67 


“They don’t look like wings,” I said. 

Then Pal took hold of one of the folds and 
stretched them all out, and I fairly screamed. “Oh, 
they are wings and look just like pictures of the 
Devil’s wings, don’t they?” 

“Yes, so they do,” laughed Pal; “but the bat finds 
them very good wings. And now look closer and 
see how they are formed. Can’t you see they are 
really her arms and hands?” 

“Her arms and hands!” I exclaimed. “Oh, Pal, 
you must be fooling me, for they are three times as 
long as her whole body.” 

“Nevertheless they are her arms and hands. That 
heaviest bone there at the top is her arm, and these 
four, slender, jointed bones coming from the end of 
the arm bone are her fingers. Then here, at the top 
of the outspread fingers, is her thumb, which you see 
is very short, and has a sharp, curved claw in the 
end of it. This claw she uses to cling with, for it is 
very strong.” 

“Yes, and all her fingers are joined together with 
that thick skin. It looks like a duck’s foot.” 

“You have described it very well, Pyxie; for a 
duck’s foot is webbed to help it swim easily, and this 
little creature’s fingers and arms are webbed so that 
she can use them to fly with. And see, she has a 
little tail like a mouse, too. That also has a web of 
skin on either side of it, reaching to the little hind 
legs all the way down to the feet. That she spreads 


68 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


when flying to help steer herself and turn quickly in 
the air, just as a bird uses its feathered tail.” 

“What a funny creature!” I said. “Tell me some 
more about her.” 

“Well,” he continued, “she is like a bird, in that 
besides being able to fly she feeds upon insects which 
she catches in the air. She never flies nor feeds 
during the day, however, for then she is hanging by 
her little feet, head downward, fast asleep, in some 
old barn where it is dark, or in some hollow tree, or 
little woodland cave. The daylight hurts her eyes, 
so she cannot see well in the bright light, and never 
comes out until dusk.” 

“Is that the reason people sometimes say ‘you’re 
as blind as a bat?’ ” I asked. 

“Yes, for bats are easily blinded and terrified by 
a strong light; but in a dim light they can see very 
well.” 

“But it is often quite dark under the trees when 
they are flying about, so dark I don’t see how they 
can help bumping into things and getting hurt.” 

“Well,” Pal said, “if it were not for a special way 
they have of learning when they are flying too near 
something that would hurt them if they struck it, 
they would get hurt. Let’s look closely at our little 
bat. Do you see anything about its face that you 
didn’t notice before?” 

“Why, yes,” I said; “there are two funny little 
things standing up in front of its ears.” 

“Good, Pyxie; that is what I wanted you to dis- 


THE BAT 


69 


cover. For it is believed that those little things let 
the bat know when he is getting too near to anything. 
It isn’t very easy to understand just how they do it, 
but perhaps I can explain it this way: You see the 
wings in beating on the air start little air ripples, like 
those in the water when you throw a stone into the 
pond, and when these air ripples strike anything hard 
they are echoed back to the bat, and those little col- 
umns in front of its ears are set a-trembling, and so 
warning is given to the bat in time to make it turn 
and avoid the danger.” 

“Then she must have a wireless telegraph station 
on her head,” I laughed, “for that’s the way you ex- 
plained about sending messages through the air.” 

“Exactly. You have expressed it very well indeed, 
Pyxie. For very much as the wireless receiver 
catches the electric ripples, our little bat receives its 
messages by catching the delicate air ripples. 

“Well, I think that’s very hard to understand, sure 
enough,” I said, “but perhaps you can tell me some 
more about the bats that’s easier — do they have little 
baby bats?” 

“Yes,” he said. “In the spring they find some 
nice, dark hollow tree or cave, inside of which they 
build a soft, warm nest, lining it with chicken feath- 
ers, or anything soft they can find. Very soon if you 
could peep into it, you would see three or four little 
baby bats, all cuddled up, looking more like tiny 
mice than anything else.” 

“And does the mother fly away, like mother birds 


70 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


do, and bring back insects for the baby bats to eat?” 

“No, indeed. She is not like a bird in that way, 
but feeds them from her breast, as a mouse does its 
babies, until they are old enough to fly at night-fall 
and catch insects for themselves.” 

“Well, let’s go now and show it to Mother, for I 
don’t believe she knows what a cunning little animal 
it is. 

A Bat is clothed with soft gray fur, 

And looks quite like a mouse; 

Sometimes it's blinded by a light, 

And flies into the house. 

Its two webbed hands are used as wings 
With which to fly at night; 

By day it hangs and sleeps, head down. 

Which it considers right. 


'Sj.. 





THE DRAGON-FLY 




AL,” I said one morning as I ran 
into his study, “what’s a Mos- 
quito-hawk? Is it a bird?” 

Pal laid down the board on 
which he was spreading a beau- 
tiful butterfly, and answered: 
“No, Pyxie, it’s an insect. And 
I suppose that question means 
that you want to take a tramp with me, eh?” 

I put my arms around his neck. “You know I 
always want to take tramps with you, Pal. You’ve 
made me love the little wood-folks so, and perhaps 
we might see a Mosquito-hawk!” 

“Very well, you little minx, I suppose I’ll have to 
do whatever you want to, as usual,” he said, patting 
my cheek. 

“But what do they look like. Pal, and how big are 
they?” 

“We’ll see one when we go out, and then you’ll 
know better than if I tried to tell you. Just wait 




72 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


till I get this butterfly spread, for if I should leave 
it its wings would stiffen, all drooped, and I couldn’t 
put it in the little glass case.” 

I waited patiently until he was through spreading 
the butterfly; then we started off on our tramp after 
Mosquito-hawks. 

As we passed Willie’s house I yelled to him and 
Tommy, telling them what we were going to do. So 
of course they joined us, and we four tramped off 
down the road. 

Very soon we came to a meadow, full of daisies 
and buttercups all looking like little fairies, swaying 
and dancing in the breeze. We crossed the mead- 
ow, the daisies bowing “good-morning” as we passed, 
and finally reached a little pond on the other side. 

“Come, children,” said Pal, as he stepped out 
upon its sandy beach, “I will show you a beautiful 
sight.” 

And there, over this pond, entirely surrounded 
by reeds save for the little beach on which we stood, 
were darting hither and thither the most beautiful 
insects I think I ever saw. 

“Oh, how lovely!” I cried. “Why, they look just 
like aeroplanes!” And we watched them as they 
sailed back and forth, swooping and circling about 
near the surface of the water. 

“Are they Mosquito-hawks?” I asked, remember- 
ing Pal had said we would see some. 

“Yes,” Pal said, “that is one of their names, and a 
very good one, too; for they eat up millions of mos- 


THE DRAGON-FLY 


73 


quitoes that otherwise would fly across the meadow 
and try to eat us; and they catch them just as hawks 
catch their prey. Some mosquitoes, you know,” he 
continued, “can make us sick with malaria if they 
bite us; and therefore the Mosquito-hawks in de- 
stroying them are our friends.” 

“Gee-whizz!” said Willie, “I wish I could turn 
into a Mosquito-hawk some night when mosquitoes 
are biting me!” 

“Pooh!” said Tommy, “they don’t look like nothin’ 
but Snake-doctors.” 

“And so they are. Tommy,” said Pal, “for that is 
another of their names. They are also called Devil’s- 
darning-needles, and many more nicknames; but 
usually Dragon-flies. See that big one,” he contin- 
ued, “with the four bronze-colored wings that look 
like beautiful lace — see how she skims over the sur- 
face, dipping her tail every few seconds in the 
water.” 

“Yes, isn’t that funny!” I said. “What is she do- 
ing that for?” 

“She is laying her eggs.” 

“Laying her eggs!” Willie and I exclaimed. 

Pal smiled, and said, “Yes, that is what she is 
doing.” 

“Humph!” said Tommy. “Old Silly! She might 
know eggs can’t float, and besides, how is she going 
to set on them to hatch them out?” 

Pal laughed. “Insect eggs do float and don’t have 
to be set on anyway. Tommy. Look closely! Can’t 


74 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


you see the little things? See how they are gradually 
drifting toward these reeds.” 

We watched, and sure enough they were soon 
borne by the soft ripples of the pond into the near- 
by reeds. Just then, however, our attention was 
drawn to another large lacy-winged Dragon-fly. She 
darted after a smaller one, and catching it settled 
upon a cat-tail and began to eat it up. 

“Oh, look!” cried Willie. “That big one is eating 
up a little one!” 

“And there goes another big one, eating a little 
one!” I said. “Why, they’re regular cannibals! 
The horrid things!” 

“No, they’re not cannibals, Pyxie,” Pal hastened 
to say, “for they are not eating their own kind. The 
smaller ones, although they are shaped like the Dra- 
gon-flies, are really Damsel-flies, and belong to an- 
other family. The Dragon-flies are their enemies, as 
well as the enemies of the mosquitoes.” 

“But won’t they hurt people?” Willie asked. “I 
knew a fellow once who said they would darn up 
your ears if you weren’t careful!” 

“No, Willie,” Pal answered, laughing; “I’ve 
heard that, too, but it isn’t so. It is just an old su- 
perstition, which arose, no doubt, from the fact that 
their bodies are shaped like big darning-needles. But 
come, let’s go over to these reeds; for I want to 
show you what the Dragon-flies look like when they 
are first hatched, and I have no doubt we can easily 
find some right over here.” 


THE DRAGON-FLY 


75 


So we followed Pal, and he began looking closely 
at the reeds until he discovered a large brownish 
shell clinging to one of them, with a split down the 
middle of its back. 

“Now,” explained Pal, “those eggs, which you 
have just seen drift over here, will hatch out in a few 
hours into little nymphs, which are small, brown, 
wiggly insects. These are the babies of the dragon- 
fly, of course, and after they have hatched out from 
the eggs they scuttle down as quickly as they can 
to the bottom of the pond, where they crawl about, 
feeding upon other small insects that live in the 
water. They have big heads and great strong jaws, 
but no wings; and they eat so much that they soon 
grow to be as large as this shell here. When spring 
comes, for they have stayed in the mud all winter, 
each one begins to feel a restless longing to come out 
of the water, up into the warm, bright sunshine. So, 
how do you suppose he does it?” 

“Swims up!” I cried. 

“Wiggles up onto the sandy beach,” Willie 
guessed. 

“Both wrong!” laughed Pal. “How do you 
think he does it, Tommy?” 

“Oh, the easiest way he can, I bet,” said Tommy, 
“for he can’t have no sense — a thing that lives in the 
mud !” 

“You’ve guessed right — it is the easiest way, but 
it is rather a smart way after all. Tommy; much 
smarter than the things some little boys say and do. 


76 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


for instance. He crawls to the shallow water,” Pal 
resumed, “and begins working his way up through 
the mud until he comes to the reeds. One of these 
he catches hold of with his claws, and upon it he 
climbs to the surface; then on up, and up, until he 
stops where the sun-light pours down upon him, and 
his shell begins to dry, and split open right down 
his back.” 

“Here is one now, over here on this reed,” Willie 
cried. 

Pal pulled the reed toward him, and after looking 
at it a moment, said, “No, that is an empty shell. 
But this creature you see just above, that looks so 
wet and uninteresting, is the full-grown Dragon-fly 
that has just come out of it. Its wings are so soft, 
as yet, that it can go no farther. If, however, you 
will watch, you will see that it soon becomes dry, and 
then it will spread its wings and sail away like a 
miniature aeroplane, as Pyxie has well said. Its 
mate is probably waiting for it over there in those 
reeds. 

“But while we are waiting for it to dry, Willie, 
suppose you and Tommy wade in here near the 
beach and get Pyxie some of those lovely pond- 
lilies.” 

“Hurrah!” yelled Tommy, yanking off his shoes 
and stockings and splashing in, followed by Willie. 
Soon they had their arms full of the beautiful, sweet- 
smelling white flowers, and they came back to us just 
in time to see the Dragon-fly, wings full spread and 


THE DRAGON-FLY 


77 


dry, still standing upon the reed, but all a-quiver 
with the desire to fly away. Its body was black with 
yellow stripes, and in the middle and on the tips of 
its shimmering silvery wings, as thin and transparent 
as the finest of lace, were blotches of black. 

“Isn’t it a beauty?” asked Pal of Willie and 
Tommy. 

“Golly!” said Willie, getting as close as he could, 
“it certainly is! What is its name?” 

“It is called the ‘Beauty Dragon-fly,’ as I was just 
telling Pyxie. Don’t you think that’s a good name?” 

“You bet!” answered Willie. “Isn’t it. Tommy?” 

“Yes!” said Tommy, slyly giving it a poke with a 
reed when Pal wasn’t looking. At that it roused, 
and leaping from the reed skimmed far away above 
our heads. 

The Dragon-flies dart here and there 
Like aeroplanes in flight. 

They will not darn up children's ears 
As some folks say, nor bite. 

They lay their eggs, which hatch to nymphs 
That live in shallow waters 

Till they grow up, crawl out, and fly. 

Their parents^ sons and daughters. 








THE RUBY-THROAT 


The Ruby-Throat 


NE morning Pal and I were 
sitting on the porch which faces 
on Mother’s old-fashioned 
flower garden, when the loveli- 
est little Humming-bird flew 
right into the honeysuckle vines 
near us, and darted about from 
flower to flower sipping its 
morning cup of honey. 

“Oh, look at the darling little Humming-bird, Pal I 
Now this is a good chance for you to tell me about 
them. Are they so small because they just live on 
honey?” 

“Why, no, Pyxie, they don’t live on honey alone. 
Their real food is insects. These they generally find 
inside the flowers, from which they also sip the 
honey.” 

“But don’t they hurt the flowers with their sharp 
little bills?” I asked. 

“No, indeed, they protect them; for the insects on 
which they feed might destroy the flowers were it not 
for our little friends.” 



80 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


All the time we were talking the little bird was 
darting from one flower to another, its tiny wings 
moving so fast that they appeared only as a blur. 
“Hum-hum-hum,” we heard, as it came closer and 
closer, in among the vines. 

“Why, its wings just say its name, don’t they, Pal? 
And it’s not the least bit afraid of us I Now be good 
and tell me their whole story.” 

“Whose whole story?” called Tommy, as he and 
Willie ran around the corner of the house. 

“The Humming-bird’s story,” I said. 

“Oh-h!” said Tommy, “why don’t you tell us 
about some big bird like an eagle. Humming-birds 
ain’t nothing!” 

“Yes they are, too; aren’t they. Pal?” 

“Well, of course,” said Pal, “if Tommy thinks 
they’re nothing he probably won’t care to stay and 
listen to the rest of my story; but perhaps, Willie, 
you will come up on the porch, and hear what I am 
telling Pyxie.” 

Tommy stood still, snatching the honeysuckles off 
the vine and throwing them on the ground, and I 
knew that he wanted to hear, too. 

“Why, I’d just as well stay, now I’m here,” he said, 
and I saw that Pal had a funny smile on his face. 

So Tommy sat down on the steps, and Pal con- 
tinued : 

“There are, all told, I believe, about four hundred 
kinds of humming-birds in North and South Amer- 
ica.” 


THE RUBY-THROAT 


81 


“Four hundred!” I cried. “Why, I’ve never seen 
but two kinds! One was a beautiful shimmering 
green like that one that was just here, and the other 
was the same color, except that its throat looked like 
a big, brilliant ruby.” 

“Then you’ve only seen one kind,” said Pal, “be- 
cause we have only one kind in this part of the coun- 
try. The green one you saw, which had a white 
throat, was the mother-bird, and the father-bird is 
the one with the ruby throat. All the other kinds 
live in the tropical part of this hemisphere.” 

“I think it’s the prettiest bird in the world. Don’t 
you, boys?” 

“Yes, I believe it is,” said Willie. 

“No,” said Tommy. “It’s too little. Now I like 
hawks and eagles, and birds that have got some 
sense.” 

“These little birds have plenty of sense. Tommy, as 
I will show you if you want to go with us down to 
the apple orchard.” 

“Oh, Pal!” I said, “is there a nest down there? Is 
that what you are going to show us?” 

“No,” said Pal,-“I am not going to show you, I am 
going to let Tommy see if he can find it, for these 
little creatures that he says have no sense have so 
much about building their nests that smart little 
boys like Tommy can very seldom find them.” 

We all four went down the garden path, where 
tall hollyhocks stood like sentinels on each side, and 


82 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


on through the grove into the orchard. Pal stopped 
in front of one of the trees and said : 

“Now, children, see if any of you can discover 
a nest in that tree. Of course a smart little boy like 
Tommy can find it at once!” 

We looked and looked, but not one single nest 
could we see. 

“Pooh!” said Tommy. “Don’t believe there is 
one here.” 

“Yes there is,” Pal said, smiling, “for I am looking 
at it right now.” 

I giggled and Tommy scowled. I love to have 
him find out sometimes that he isn’t as smart as he 
thinks he is. But I was puzzled, for though I looked 
hard I could not see a sign of a nest. Just then, how- 
ever, almost above our heads, we heard the greatest 
screaming and squawking, and a faint squeaking and 
clicking and a humming of wings. Of course we all 
looked up. 

“Oh! look at that beautiful bluebird!” Willie 
cried, as a big Blue-jay flashed among the branches. 
“And see! the Humming-bird is darting after him.” 

“Pal, Pal!” I said, “the Humming-bird seems to 
be actually attacking the big bird, and driving him 
from the tree!” 

“Yes, Pyxie, that is exactly what he is doing. The 
Blue-jay had probably come into the tree on a hunt 
for birds’ eggs, and the father-bird knew that his 
mate, the little mother-bird, was sitting on her eggs 


THE RUBY-THROAT 


83 


right in this tree; so he determined to drive him 
away at once.” 

“But can a little tiny bird like that really drive 
away a bird more than fifty times bigger than he is?” 
I asked. 

“Yes, Humming-birds can, for they are very coura- 
geous and absolutely fearless, and will attack any 
bird, no matter how large, that comes too near their 
nests. But now back to the work of finding the nest 
Can’t any of you see it? It’s in full sight.” 

But try as we would we could not see anything but 
the leafy gnarled limbs of the old apple tree. 

Then Pal, seeing that we had failed, gently pulled 
a bough a few inches toward us. 

“Can’t you see the nest now?” 

But still we saw nothing — when all of a sudden 
the shimmering green body of the little mother-bird 
darted from a small knot on the branch that Pal 
held. He pulled it closer as she flew round and 
round us, giving sharp little squeaks and humming 
her wings, and there, in what we had thought was 
a knot, were two of the cutest little pure white 
eggs, about the size of small peas! 

“Oh! Oh!” I exclaimed. “What tiny eggs! 

“How could she build such a darling nest and 
make it look just like it was a part of the tree?” 

It was fastened right across the limb, a little gray- 
green lichen covered knot, about the same size and 
color as the other real knots on the branch, but lined 


84 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


with the softest down that the birds had found in 
some old cat-tails in the swamp below the orchard. 

“They are cute,” said Willie, “the very littlest 
eggs I ever saw. Will the mother-bird lay any 
more?” 

“No, Willie, Humming-birds lay only two eggs; 
and if we go away now and don’t frighten the moth- 
er-bird too much she will hatch them out in a few 
days, and then we can come back and watch her 
feeding her little ones.” 

“Oh, I’d love to do that,” I said; and the boys 
agreed that they would, too. 

Pal then let the branch go gently back. 

“Now, children, I want you to promise me that 
you won’t come near this tree again until I bring 
you. Promise?” 

We all said we would, though I think Tommy 
hated to; and Pal explained that if the Humming- 
bird discovered that she was being watched it might 
make her nervous so that she would desert her eggs 
and go off somewhere else to build a new nest, and 
lay two more eggs where she could hatch them with- 
out fear of harm. 

In a little over a week we were romping about the 
yard one afternoon, when I heard the whistle by 
which Pal always called me. 

“Listen!” I said. “There’s Pal calling.” And 
we looked down toward the orchard and saw him 
there beckoning to us. “Oh, I hope it is the little 
Hummers hatched out. Come on I” 


THE RUBY-THROAT 


85 


“Bet I can beat you down,” said Tommy, as he 
raced away; and we ran as fast as we could after 
him. 

Sure enough, when we got there Pal was holding 
the limb down for us to look once more into the nest 
of the little green mother-bird. And there we saw, 
instead of the two eggs, two little downy babies with 
their mouths wide open, squeaking for food. 

“Sh-sh,” said Pal, and we stepped back as he let 
go of the limb. “Here comes the mother-bird to 
feed them.” 

Down she darted, and kept thrusting her long, 
sharp bill down the throat of one of her babies. 

“Goodness,” I said, “she’s going to stab it to death, 
I do believe. The poor little thing!” 

“No, Pyxie, she won’t hurt the little one. That is 
just the way she has of getting the food out of her 
throat and into the throats of her babies. She goes 
out and swallows ever so many insects and honey, as 
we saw her doing in the honeysuckles, and then 
comes back and feeds her babies with it all, as you 
see her doing now.” 

“Well, that’s a funny way to get their food, out of 
the mother’s throat! How soon do you think they 
will be able to fly about and get it for themselves?” 

“In a little more than two weeks,” Pal said, “they 
will have grown big and strong enough to leave their 
nest. Then the parent birds will teach them how to 
fly and show them how to find their own food; and 
when their wings are quite strong, and they feel the 


86 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


first cool breath of fall, they will join a flock of other 
Humming-birds and all fly South, loitering each day 
long enough to get their breakfast from the flowers 
they are passing. For they are then on their way to 
their winter home in Central America.” 

The Humming-bird is the tiniest bird that ever you 
can see. 

It builds its nest like a little green knot on the bough 
of an apple tree. 

In the morning hours it sips from the flowers its 
breakfast of honey and dew, 

And flashing its beautiful ruby throat hums good 
morning" to me and you. 




THE SCARLET UNDERWING 





Y PAL had been away, so I had 
not gone tramping in over two 
weeks; and all that time the 
little wood-folks had been call- 
ing, calling us to come out and 
visit them. Finally the eve- 
ning came for his return, and I 
started down the road to meet 
him. The big trees on each 
against the sky, and seemed to 
point threatening fingers at me; but I wasn’t afraid, 
and ran past them, for I was going to meet my Pal. 

We spied each other almost at the same moment, 
and he held out his arms and I ran and jumped into 
them, saying, “Oh, Pal, I’m so glad you’re backl” 

“And I’m glad to get back to my little Pyxie, too,” 
he said. “If you were going to be a Pyxie and steal 
my heart, why didn’t you stay little enough to fit in 
my vest pocket, so I could always take you about 
with me?” 

I laughed. “What have you got in there for 
me this time?” For I knew he had something — 



88 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


he always did have. So I slipped my fingers in it, 
while he stood smiling, watching me, and pulled out 
a little tissue paper package. 

“Oh, goody!” I said, dancing up and down. 
“What is it?” 

“Look and see,” he laughed. 

I unwrapped it as quickly as I could and found 
the nicest little magnifying glass you ever saw, with 
a chain to go round my neck so I couldn’t lose it. 

“Oh, Pal,” I cried, and gave him a hug around 
the knees. “Now I’ll always have one to examine 
things with when we go tramping, won’t I?” Then 
I took his hand and we started to walk home to- 
gether; but just as we were passing those big trees 
something on one of them drew his attention, and he 
stopped and said : “Sh-sh! There’s a Scarlet Under- 
wing Moth!” 

“Where — where!” I whispered, for I had been 
wanting to see one for a long time, ever since he had 
told me they were such pretty moths. 

He took my hand and we walked to the tree. I 
looked up and down the trunk, and then peered all 
around it, as far up as I could, but I didn’t see one 
single thing. 

“Why, I thought you said you saw an Underwing 
Moth on this tree?” I said, disappointed. 

He smiled, and almost touched the tree with his 
finger right in front of my eyes, and then I saw there 
was a moth there, almost two inches long, whose 
wings were so exactly the color of the bark that I am 


THE SCARLET UNDERWING 


89 


sure no one but Pal ever could have discovered it. 
I must have stuck my face too near, however, 
for before Pal could catch it, away it flew, and was 
lost to us in the dusk. 

“Oh, isn’t that too bad! I did want to look at it 
through my glass!” 

“Never mind, Pyxie. We’ll catch some tonight, if 
you say so, for they fly after dark, you know.” 

“How can you see to catch them?” 

“We’ll take a lantern and go sugaring.” 

“Sugaring!” I said puzzled. “What do you mean 
by that?” 

“I’ll show you right after supper.” 

I gobbled my supper as fast as I could, and 
couldn’t understand why it took the others so terribly 
long to finish. Finally we were through, however, 
and I hollered for Tommy and Willie, while Pal 
got things ready, and then we all started for a strip 
of woods not far from our house. 

“Here, Tommy, you can take this pail,” Pal said, 
as we crossed the road; “and you can carry the brush, 
Willie.” 

“Pal, please let me carry something!” 

“All right; you can carry this poison jar.” And 
he handed me a glass jar with a cork stopper, much 
bigger than the one he usually carries in his pocket, 
in the bottom of which was some poison whose fumes 
he told us would put any of the little wood-folks to 
sleep forever and ever, if they should be dropped 
into it. 


90 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


“What’s in this pail, anyhow?” asked Tommy, 
sniffing at it. “Smells to me like molasses.” 

“It is,” said Pal. “Molasses, stale beer and brown 
sugar.” 

“Gee!” said Tommy. “What an awful mixture! 
What are we going to do with it?” 

“I’ll show you right now,” said Pal, for we had 
come to the edge of the woods, and he stopped in 
front of a big tree. “Here, Willie, hold this lantern 
— up — so — as high as you can. There! Now, Tom- 
my, hold the pail closer, so I can dip the brush in. 
There!” And Pal, dipping his brush, began paint- 
ing a place about a foot square on the trunk of the 
tree. Willie was so astonished he almost dropped 
the lantern, and even Tommy’s mouth hung open. 

“For goodness sake. Pal, what are you doing?” I 
asked, quite as surprised as the boys. 

“I’m sugaring,” he said, as he led us on to the next 
tree. “The smell of this mixture will attract the Un- 
derwing Moths as well as many other kinds, and they 
will come to these trees to drink it. After they have 
sipped a little of it they become rather tipsy, which 
makes them clumsy and less likely to take alarm 
when approached, and I can catch them quite easily 
in the poison jar.” 

“Golly! That’s a bully stunt,” said Tommy. “Let 
me paint awhile.” And he began splashing the trees 
all up with the sticky, sweet mess. Then Willie and 
I took our turns at painting, and pretty soon we had 
stuck up nearly every tree along that strip of woods; 


THE SCARLET UNDERWING 


91 


but, though we went back and looked for the moths, 
not a single one had appeared. 

“When are they going to come. Pal? We can’t 
paint all night!” 

“No, we’ve painted more than enough now, so we 
had better sit down and wait awhile.” He drew the 
slide across the light in the lantern, and we all sat 
down together on a log and waited. 

It was not long before Pal said it was about time 
to examine our trees; so we got up and went back to 
the first tree we had sugared. Then Willie, holding 
the lantern high above his head, pushed the slide 
back and flashed the light full upon the tree-trunk. 
There we saw several gray and brown moths on the 
“sugar,” but Pal, looking at them closely, said he did 
not want any of them ; so we went on to the next tree. 
When Willie turned the light on that, Pal said softly: 
“Be quiet, children. There are three Underwings.” 

And there, low down on the “sugar,” stood three 
large moths with gray upper wings, mottled like the 
one Pal had shown me before supper, but these had 
the most beautiful scarlet lower wings with curved 
black bands on them, just showing from under the 
upper wings. 

“Aren’t they gorgeous! Are they drinking it. 
Pal?” I whispered. 

He nodded, and went up to the tree-trunk care- 
fully, so as not to startle the moths, holding the pois- 
on jar uncovered and with its opening toward the 
tree, until it came within a few inches of the lowest 


92 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


big moth. Then “slap!” he went and covered the 
moth with the jar. 

“Hooray! You’ve got him!” shouted Tommy. 
And sure enough he did have him, for the moth, 
after a little fluttering, settled down, making no 
further effort to escape, and Pal corked the jar up 
tight. Presently he transferred it to another jar, 
so as to be ready to catch the next one we should 
see. It was lots of fun, and he let us all catch some 
ourselves. 

In this manner we caught many more, including 
several different kinds that Pal needed for the 
museum. 

“I think sugaring is the bulliest kind of fun,’' said 
Tommy. “Don’t you. Will?” 

“Yes, and when I’m a man I’m going to ‘sugar’ 
for a museum, too.” 

“So am I,” I said. 

As we started home the big moon came up and 
peered at us over the trees. 

“Look at the Old Man in the Moon!” I said. “He 
looks as if he were saying, ‘What in the world are 
you doing out so late?’ ” 

Tommy turned round and made a face at him and 
said: “You’re a fine old fellow to say that! You 
stay out ’most all night yourself.” 

When we got home Pal took all the moths from the 
jar and selecting a large Underwing, spread out its 
wings. 

“Oh-h, how pretty!” I exclaimed, as the brilliant 
scarlet underwings flashed up at me. 


THE SCARLET UNDERWING 


93 


“Ain’t she, though!” Willie said; and Tommy 
whistled. 

“Can’t you tell us her story, Pal?” 

“Certainly, Pyxie. To begin at the beginning, she 
is first an egg, laid by the mother moth on the leaves 
of a big tree. When that egg hatches, she is a little 
caterpillar, and after she has eaten plenty of hickory 
leaves and grown to be a big caterpillar, she crawls 
slowly down the trunk of the tree, and buries herself 
beneath the moss at the foot. Here she spins her 
cocoon. In this cocoon she sleeps until she has com- 
pleted her change from a caterpillar to a pupa, 
finally hatching out into the beautiful moth you now 
see, and then she crawls up the trunk a little way and 
waits there for her wings to dry. She does not fly 
about during the day, but stays with her forewings 
closed (carefully covering her brilliant hind wings) 
on a tree-trunk, and is so like it in her markings and 
color that her enemies, the birds, can hardly ever 
find her. But at night she spreads her wings and 
flies about looking for something good to eat, for she 
is one of the little night creatures who help keep 
guard over us in the dark.” 


The Underwing Moth, throughout the bright day, 
With front wings all mottled with black, white and 
gray. 

Clings close to the bark of the hickory tree. 

So matching the bark that she's quite hard to see. 


94 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


But at night, when her enemies sleep, she flies forth 
To the flowers, a wonderfully beautiful moth; 

For, without fear of harm, her gray wings are out- 
spread. 

Disclosing her hind wings of black and bright red. 









V - 







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THE PAINTED TURTLE 


AL had promised for a long time 
to take me canoeing on a little 
river that ran through the 
shady woodlands about two 
miles from our home. And so 
one morning, when the sun 
laughed in at my window and 
woke me up, I decided that it 
would be a good day to go; so 
as soon as I could get dressed I ran out into the 
garden where I found Pal sitting with a book in his 
hand, and gave him his good-morning kiss. 

“How about going on the canoeing picnic today?” 
I asked slyly. 

“That’s a pretty good idea, Pyxie,” he said, shut- 
ting his book and getting up from the bench on which 
he sat. “As soon as we have breakfast I’ll put on my 
tramping clothes and we will start out.” 

“Oh, then I’ll go right now and fix the lunch!” I 
cried, skipping toward the kitchen door. 

I was so excited I ran plunk against Mary, the 
cook, and almost knocked her into the milk-pails. 



96 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


“An’ faith! what do ye think ye be doin’, a-knock- 
in’ a lady down in her tracks before breakfast,” she 
exclaimed, taking me by the shoulders and steadying 
us both. 

“Oh, Mary,” I cried, “Pal and I are going on a 
picnic, and I want to fix a perfectly delicious lunch;” 
and I began busying myself about the kitchen, Mary 
grumbling good-naturedly every time I took any- 
thing she thought I oughtn’t to have. 

Soon I had a lunch fixed that would make any- 
body’s mouth water, and I felt sure Pal would like it. 
I put up hot coffee for him and cold milk for me in 
thermos bottles, and chicken and jam and cake in the 
basket, and as many kinds of sandwiches as Mother 
has at an afternoon tea. Of course I tasted every- 
thing as I put the lunch up, and then Mother won- 
dered why I couldn’t eat any breakfast. But Pal 
guessed, I suppose, and we exchanged winks. Moth- 
er is always afraid to have me go on the water, even 
with Pal, but promising her I would sit very still I 
gave her a hug as soon as breakfast was over, and 
jumped into the buggy with Pal. 

We rattled away, sometimes in the shade of the 
trees that stretched their arms across the road, then 
through long, sandy stretches, where I could feel the 
freckles just jumping out on my nose ; until finally we 
came to the bank of the river, where Pal had a little 
house in which he kept his canoe. 

While he was busy getting the canoe out of the 


THE PAINTED TURTLE 


97 


house and into the water, I tied “Old Draggletail,” 
as Tommy calls her, to a tree. 

“Now be careful, Pyxie,” Pal said, as I started to 
step into the canoe. “Step exactly in the middle, or 
you might tip it over.” 

I did, and was soon settled comfortably among the 
red cushions; and Pal, taking his place, began pad- 
dling the canoe up the river. 

“Oh, isn’t this lovely! We’re just skimming 
through the water without making a ripple. Can I 
let my hand drag in the water?” I asked. 

“Yes, if you put both hands out, one on either side, 
and are careful not to lean over either way,” he an- 
swered; “for you don’t want to tip over and pay the 
bottom of the river a visit, do you?” 

I laughed, and carefully put my hands over the 
sides into the water and holding my fingers apart let 
them trail along just beneath the surface. A fine 
spray danced about them, looking just like little 
water sprites running a race. 

We passed under low-hanging boughs of hemlock, 
where the water looked black and scarey. A little 
red squirrel ran out to the tip of one of the branches, 
stopped, and curving his tail over his back chattered 
and scolded at us, as much as to say — “What are you 
doing so near my hemlock tree?” 

Then we darted out from the shadows into the sun- 
shine, where the river was blue and sparkling again; 
and then on and on we paddled, passing banks where 
little Muskrats had their homes; and once, where 


98 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


the river ran again through a thick piece of woods, 
we saw a little Oven-bird’s nest among the ferns, high 
up on the bank. 

“Oh, look at the turtles!” I cried, as we went 
around a bend in the river where a dead log lay 
partly in the water, almost in front of us. “Aren’t 
there a lot of them?” 

Their quick eyes just then caught sight of the 
canoe, and stretching out their long necks and snake- 
like heads they. quickly crawled with their flipper 
feet to the edge of the log and plunked off with a 
splash into the water out of sight. 

“I never saw that kind of a turtle before,” I said. 
“They are so gayly colored. What are they?” 

“They are what is known as the Painted Turtle. 
The ones you have seen have doubtless been Box 
Turtles that live on land and are smaller, and whose 
shells are mottled black and yellowish brown.” 

“Can’t you tell me something about them?” I 
asked. We were now passing reeds and grasses and 
shallow places where cat-tails grew, and Dragon- 
flies darted hither and thither. 

“Why, yes, Pyxie; and I can show you something 
about them, too, if we draw our canoe up here on this 
sandy beach. It’s about time for lunch, anyway, 
isn’t it, little girl?” 

And, my stomach agreeing with my head, I 
nodded, and we landed upon the sand and sat down 
under a nearby oak for our picnic. 

“My, but these sandwiches are good!” he said, 


THE PAINTED TURTLE 


99 


taking one from the basket and biting a big piece out 
of it. 

“But the Painted Turtles,” I said, biting into my 
sandwich, “what do they look like, exactly? I didn’t 
half see them, they scuttled off the log so fast.” 

“As you have seen,” Pal said, “they carry their 
houses about upon their backs. If they are on land, 
which often happens, at the approach of an enemy 
they can draw their heads and feet into their shell, 
or house, and curve their thick, short tails around one 
side of their bodies under the edge of the shell so 
that nothing shows but their hard covering, and thus 
they are protected from their enemies. When 
sunning themselves on a log, however, as you 
have just seen them doing, they stick their heads, 
legs and tails out of the shell. Their heads, which 
have very long necks, and their legs are marked with 
yellow, red and black stripes, and the edges of their 
shells look very gay with the same colored mark- 
ings.” 

“Their heads are the shape of a snake’s,” I said. 
“Are they related to the snakes?” 

“Yes, they are cousins to the snake, I should say, 
but like most of the snakes they are perfectly harm- 
less. They are very timid creatures and seldom let 
any one see how really beautiful they are. But do 
let’s finish our lunch, Pyxie, and then I’ll tell you 
some more about them.” 

Pal ate and ate, just as I knew he would, and then, 
after we had quite finished, we rose and went back 


100 REALLY TRULY NATURE STORIES 


to the beach, and he took up the thread of our story 
again. 

“See these tracks in the sand?” pointing to them. 
“These are the tracks of the Painted Turtle. Her 
legs are so short that as she walks her shell keeps 
dragging on the ground and makes these tracks.” 

“What in the world was she doing up here?” I 
said. 

“Let’s follow the tracks and we’ll see.” 

We did so, and when about two or three rods back 
from the water’s edge we found a slight depression 
in the sand. Pal began digging with his fingers, and 
after getting a few inches down what do you sup- 
pose we saw? Lots and lots of the funniest long, nar- 
row, white eggs, that were the same shape at both 
ends. 

“Eggs!” I cried in surprise. “Aren’t they. Pal?” 

“Yes,” he said, “eggs of the gayly colored Turtle 
you have just seen.” 

“Aren’t they funny! Can I pick one up?” 

He smiled and nodded; so stooping, I took one in 
my hand. It was as soft and pliable as it could be. 

“Why, these don’t feel like eggs,” I said. “The 
shell is all soft and mushy.” 

“Yes, that is because they have just been laid. The 
Turtle crawls up here, and digs a little hole in which 
she lays them. Then she pushes the sand back over 
them, and after a little while the shells become hard 
like those of any other eggs.” 


THE PAINTED TURTLE 


101 


“And doesn’t the Turtle sit on them, or attend to 
them at all?” 

“No,” Pal said, “for the warmth of the sun makes 
the sand hot, and that soon hatches them out, and 
away the little ones scuttle to the edge of the river 
and plunk down into the water, just as you saw the 
big ones doing as we paddled by them. There they 
stay until the river begins to freeze over and they 
find it growing cold, when they swim down and bury 
themselves in the mud at its bottom and sleep all 
winter.” 

The pretty Painted Turtle, 

Its house upon its back, 

Crawls up on sandy beaches, 

And leaves a well-marked track. 

It digs a hollow in the sand. 

And lays some dozen eggs; 

Then back it waddles to the stream 
Upon its clumsy legs. 





-fife 







^ QV 6 1 




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